by Susan Ward
They were in view, but not close. She took a small measure of comfort from that, even as a part of her thrilled at this unexpected moment alone with Morgan. The days of his careful distance from her had miserably confirmed his lack of affection for her. The painful twisting of her stomach had confirmed, for Merry, things she would not permit herself to admit, yet.
Morgan’s hand on her arm caused her to draw a single breath that was out of rhythm with the others. When she shifted her attention back to him, his eyes were hooded fire embers, a potent smile lingering on the surface of his mouth.
“Alone, at last,” he said, not taking his gaze from her face.
At the gentle urging of his hand, Merry sank to her knees beside him. Merry watched as his well-formed fingers rummaged through the basket for the wine and the neatly wrapped fare.
She realized this lunch had been packed for them, most probably by Morgan’s German housekeeper. Merry didn’t doubt Emily would never have accommodated a request from him for this.
Accepting the wine glass he held out for her, she said, “You’re very fond of the children.”
He laughed softly, as he continued to prepare a plate for her. “Why does it sound as if that surprises you? I happen to like children, Little One.”
Her wide doe eyes sharpened on his face. “But, you seem particularly fond of these children.”
Morgan stopped in what he was doing and gave her a hard stare. “For a man my age, I can hardly say that I haven’t had my share of dalliances. But, I have no bastard children, Merry. Not a one. And Emily is many things to me, but she has never been my mistress.”
For some strange reason that delighted her very much. To cover the confusing wash of her feelings for him, Merry focused on Lily in the distance.
Morgan hid a smile, and continued with his task. In a gesture he’d come to know well, she set down the glass, hugged her knees until she was curled into a tiny ball, and rested her chin there.
Wanting to divert himself from the thoughts he was having, he asked, “Why did you stow away to America, Little One? It has been teasing my curiosity for months. How old were you? Was this recent? You do enjoy such unlikely entertainments for a girl your age.”
Merry made a face at Morgan as though he had insulted her.
“I was nine, you insufferable man. My brother had given me a picture book for my birthday. It had wonderful stories about the wild land and the savages. I wanted to see Indians and my father wouldn’t let me. So when my uncle had to go on business, I simply went with him, hiding in the luggage box in his coach. It was more difficult getting on that ship than yours. I had to wait until night. I was cold and very frightened, and more than a little hungry. I snuck aboard and hid in the galley until they pulled from port.”
Morgan laughed. She savored the rare pleasure of the fuller sound of it that could only be found in true amusement. “Did you get to see your Indians, Little One?”
Knitting her delicate brows in disappointment, she shook her head. “No. That is the worst part of it. We went to the American capital, and I only got to see a brief flash of the city, before my uncle locked me into a room. I was in a hotel for two months, with a dour faced old woman as guard who would not let me have any fun at all. It was miserable being locked away from the world.”
“I think your uncle was wise to lock you away, Little One. You are an excessively curious and willful girl. It gets you into trouble. What happened when you got home? I imagine your parents were displeased with you.”
She nodded and her eyes rounded. “My mother cried and lavished kisses all over my face. I was standing there shaking in her arms thinking, ‘I was so afraid to come home, so afraid that they would be furious that I could not enjoy the ship on my return voyage, and this is all they’ve done.’ Then, she handed me to my father, who gave me the worst spanking of my life. So you can tell Indy I have been spanked, though perhaps not often enough, and it did no good.”
Merry was laughing with her memories. The smile she gave him was breathtaking. Morgan’s gaze studied her young face then traveled the length of her. Taking in her slim, shapely body, and the fast rising heat within him, reminded him it had been a very long time since he’d been with a woman.
Leaning in, he lifted her chin and claimed her lips. Without a single recognizable command from either of them, she was in his arms. This kiss was far from a simple kiss. They kissed, hungrily and long, with a caressing intensity that left her limp everywhere, and suddenly beneath him on the blanket.
“I didn’t bring you here for this,” he said almost to himself.
Then his hands moved in slow patterns on the sides of her gown. The breath quickened in her throat and in his. The erotic glide of his hands made her skin quiver as he continued to devour her lips.
With his palm, he pushed aside the line of fabric that covered her shoulder, moving his kisses there to her creamy softness. Dragging her into his arms, he turned until her body covered his. His mouth returned to hers, feeling the sweetness of her blooming sensuality, the unaffected way her body answered each move of his.
When his hand moved beneath her gown, up her bare leg, he heard a startled little gasp, but she did not pull away. She only melted more against him.
He turned her beneath him, back against the blanket. Merry intimately molded into him with all the completeness that was possible, since they were both fully dressed. Even with the layers of fabric between them, the contact held enough thoroughness to make her ache in places she had never known she could ache. Hot waves swirled all through her body as they kissed and kissed, their mouths desperate and hungry, her tongue playing in frantic answer of his, as she let his hands dance freely across her trembling flesh.
Merry knew where this was going, but the spray of kisses on her passion damp flesh above her lace bound breasts only increased the desperate urges to let it go where she wanted it to. She knew she needed to stop this, uncertain how she had let herself go so far and afraid of going further. Her body was ruthlessly demanding the conclusion, even while the rapidly forming warnings commanded her to stop. This growing hunger in her flesh did nothing to make, less harsh, the fact she could never permit this to happen. Those were her thoughts, even as her hands and mouth never faltered in meeting his quest, and only seemed to urge him onward.
“Please,” she whispered. When that brought no response, she did it again, louder into the trap of his lips.
Morgan was not even aware he had her half undressed, until Merry’s tremulous voice permeated the ragged chorus of his own breath. He felt her tiny body beneath him jerk, tense, and then almost tragically surrender to his touch.
Opening his eyes, Merry was a beautiful blur beneath him. Her passion kissed features were a blend of anxiousness and arousal, though on every delicately molded line was want to stop this. In his soul rose the damning warning that this act completed today would not be completed well. Aroused in body she was, sure she was not.
As hungry for her as he was at present, he couldn’t do it. If he made love to her now, she would regret the giving of herself, regret him, and hate him for it. While he wasn’t at all certain what he wanted from her, he knew for certain he didn’t want that.
As slowly as his body had surrounded her, Merry became aware that Morgan was withdrawing it from her, with a gentle disconnect that added to her inner upheaval. Her flesh screamed for the return of contact, even while she was grateful that he’d worked his body from her, knowing she could never have managed any of this if it had been left to her.
Merry was lying face flushed beneath him, shivering like a fool, thankful he’d stopped and in agony that he did. That he didn’t even try to urge her onward, although it was the last thing she should want, left her miserable and humiliated. Immersed in the agony of yearning, she had left it to him to end this strange torment inside of her, and for whatever reason, he had stopped.
Merry closed her eyes, not wanting to meet his gaze. His low voice, whispering through her tumult, had a r
aspy tender quality to it. “You are in a surprisingly reckless mood today, Little One.”
Merry felt him gently ease away, and then, the sun burned where his body had been. Her eyes flew open and it was then she saw him lying back against the blanket beside her, one well-muscled arm covering his face. His tanned flesh showed a light flush, and his dark hair had tumbled forward in wanton disarray.
When he sat up, she could see in his eyes shards of burning blackness. She dropped her gaze. He said, “Finish your meal, Little One. I should get the children and take you back to the house. Any more sun and you’ll be red as a lobster.”
She looked at Morgan, then. For the briefest of seconds, she saw the expression on his face before he could conceal it from her. He did not want what had happened between them.
She turned away from him, letting her hair tumble forward to hide her face. No man had ever hurt her more than this. To her greater dismay, she wondered how she had permitted herself to care for a man who would never care for her in return.
He rose to his feet. “I’ll collect the children while you finish your meal, Little One.”
She didn’t look up, obediently nodding.
She was quiet in the boat as Morgan rowed her back to the villa. Morgan looked at her not once, and seemed content to fix on Thomas’s sprawling tale of what he’d found in the tide pool.
The house was bursting with the sounds of excitement as they returned. The instant they crossed the front entry, Lily left at a running pace, disappearing into the main parlor.
Hanging back in the doorway, Merry watched Morgan crossing the room. So Emily’s captain was real, Merry thought, before she was pulled into the celebration to be introduced to the short, fat, smiling figure of Captain George Randall.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Christmas day rose with a brilliant sun, a vivid blue sky, and not a hint of winter in the air. Christmas in the Caribbean was a magical thing.
The servants and the island families had received their presents the night before. They’d gathered on Morgan’s rolling back lawn for a celebration the entire household shared. He was a surprisingly gracious, attentive host and, to Merry’s surprise, the island families all but, adored him.
The children would have their gifts in the morning.
Sounds came early and loud in the house the next morning, since the children had been forced to wait. Merry had only managed to don a dressing gown before Lily flung wide her door.
“Hurry, Mistress Merry. Lord Deverell says we must wait for you,” Lily exclaimed, grabbing Merry by the hand and dragging her downstairs at a half-running pace.
An hour later, Merry was sitting in the middle of a busy, boisterous family, which much resembled the Merrick clan. Tucked into the warmth of celebrating children, it was easy for Merry to forget she was only Morgan’s hostage. They climbed on her lap, pulled at her to show her this or that treasure unwrapped. There was pleasure in simply watching them and their enthusiastic want to include her in this.
The exchange of gifts swirled back and forth. Morgan had been most generous with the Randall children. It was not until she heard Lily, sitting on the arm of Morgan’s chair, that Merry did not feel a part of what was happening.
“But, where is Merry’s gift?” said Lily, when there was not a single package left untouched.
Morgan’s dark eyes floated the room, returning to the little girl. “Ah. It does seem we are one short.”
That made Lily glare at him. Then, Morgan’s eyes shifted to Merry as he whispered into Lily’s ear, “There is a small, black box in that drawer over there. Fetch it for me.”
The little girl climbed from his lap, went to the drawer, and brought it back to him in satisfaction.
She said, “It is wise you did not forget. I would have been angry.”
In mock-seriousness, Morgan shook his head. “Then, it is a good thing I would never forget Merry. I did not plan to do this now. Go away. You are irritating me.”
He crossed the room to Merry. Her eyes were round in her face, huge upon him, as he slowly lowered to the floor in front of her. She cautioned herself not to make more of this gesture than she should. It was no doubt only part of this fiction he maintained with the Randalls.
Still, her heart would not respond obediently as she felt his eyes upon her. She opened the gift. A large blue sapphire sparkled brilliantly in its setting. Merry stared at the pendant in disbelief.
“This is for me?” she asked.
He laughed softly. “Of course. It is the exact hue of your eyes. Who else could I make such a gift to?”
“Ah. It’s beautiful,” Emily said, and then added pointedly to Morgan, “A sapphire. How extraordinary.”
“The North Star,” Morgan corrected, keeping his eyes carefully diverted from Emily. “When I saw it in Bermuda, I could not think of it belonging to anyone but you, Little One.”
Merry lowered her gaze from him, her heart a confusing blend of hurt and longing. The North Star, the star that sees every sailor home from their journey. An odd trembling possessed her. She did not know what to make of his words, the gift, or that he had thought of this many weeks ago.
He removed the dainty chain from the box and unclasped it. “Would you like me to put it on you?”
Merry said nothing and lifted her hair. His arms slid over her shoulders, her heart pounding as the warmth of his fingers brushed the flesh of her a neck.
When he eased back from her, he lifted her chin. “It looks most beautiful on you, Merry.”
She could not meet his gaze.
“It’s lovely. Thank you,” she murmured.
She sprang to her feet and hurried from the room. She didn’t know why, but she was in tears before she made it through the terrace doors. What were these strange feelings inside of her? How did one make them stop?
She was standing at the edge of the porch, brushing her tears, when Morgan’s even footsteps sounded behind her.
Morgan said, “I am sorry. I don’t know what I’ve done to upset you. It was not my intent, Little One.”
Even without looking at him, his voice told her he was telling the truth in this. It made her reaction all the more perplexing and foolish. How was it that a gift from man had the power to make her cry? What could she say to him that would not sound foolish?
“I miss the rain,” Merry sobbed. “And stormy days with everything cozy inside. And my family. I never thought I’d spend a day without them. I miss my home more than I ever thought I would. So many remark that Cornwall is stark and eerie. It is not. It is peaceful.”
Morgan didn’t ask. He lifted Merry in his arms and settled in a chair with her curled upon his lap.
“Cornwall is peaceful, Little One. You are right. And you are right to want to go home.”
And with that Merry curled into Morgan and let go more tears.
~~~
The end of January saw the return of the Corinthian, but only Tom Craven and Indy came to the villa. The rest of the crew had scattered across the island.
The day before they were to set sail, Merry hurried into the dining parlor to find only Emily and Captain Randall there. She’d awoke early, hoping to catch Morgan still breakfasting. She had hardly seen him since the ship’s return.
She stared at his empty chair. “Where is Lord Deverell this morning?”
Emily’s smile was strained. “We most probably won’t see him today, my dear.”
Captain Randall continued to eat and gave a nod. “It is a dark day, indeed.”
Merry shifted her gaze to Emily. They were both in somber moods.
“There is nothing to be troubled about, my dear. It will pass. It always does. Now eat,” Emily said, and then absently added, “When we saw you, we had so hoped these dark spells would be behind Lord Deverell.”
Merry sat back in her chair and studied the Randalls. “Dark day? Why is everyone so grave?”
Emily dabbed at her eyes and forced a smile. “Never mind, my dear. I want this to be a hap
py day. It is your last day on the island. I think we should have a party in the garden. Wouldn’t you like that, George? Yes, that is what we need. When you finish your meal, Captain, you will see that my pianoforte is taken to the garden.”
~~~
It was the sound of Merry’s laughter that pulled Morgan from his darkened room. It was like a siren’s call, inescapable, even in the grimness of his mood. The day marked the tenth year of Ann’s death. It was the day he faithfully devoted to her and all he remembered.
Morgan sat on a Chinese Chippendale bench in the brilliant sunlight of afternoon, staring into the terraced garden at Merry. Emily had had his pianoforte carried to the lawn; the glossy surface now filthy with the treasures discarded from Merry’s hands. There was now a scattering of seashells, leaves and the petals of scarlet lilies.
Even from a distance, Morgan could clearly hear the words Merry was singing in a clear voice, not quite as lovely as her face. Her anti-monarchal selection stirred a remnant sense of discomfort, since it seemed time could not completely obliterate the politesse of his youth.
She was charming in this, as lovely as she was in all the things that she did. So much so, even the staunch loyalist, George Randall, sat charmed as Merry entertained his children with mocking references to the large girth and villainy of England’s ruling prince.
Her song was British home grown. It was most probably the product of the young, radical republican set that haunted the English countryside. It was definitely British, not American. It accounted for its cleverness, since the Americans had no flair at all in their wordplay or satire.
Her treasonous little ditty over, Merry began to laugh uproariously. Morgan wondered, yet again, who this girl was. What did it mean, her affinity for the anti-monarchal and her clearly expressed sympathies for the Americans? Was she English merchant class, perhaps?
The blockades, that restricted trade, harmed on both sides of the Atlantic. It was the merchant class that was particularly vocal in stirring the flames of civil unrest. Perhaps Merry was not nobility, at all, and merely moneyed.